Lay Off the Goddamn Bean Burritos, You Bloated Gasbags
This is your old pal Cliff Yablonski again. That marble-headed halfwit Richard Kenyanka asked me to update his Interweb computer screen again because he's been busy working on some geekass computer machine program that does something to something else. I keep telling that spineless pantywaist that this computer shit is just a fad like rock and roll or afros or convertibles, but he doesn't listen to me because he's one of those Generation Axe punkasses who think they know everything in the goddamn world. Well listen here you smartass - you don't know shit. When all your computer gears and levers start breaking down like nobody's business, guess who will be laughing? Me, I'll be the one laughing, because while you cretins type all your words into your computer machine, I write my words down on paper and then I type that paper out on my typewriter and then I punch the typed paper words into the computer machine. And if you retards dont think your computer machines will break down, well maybe you should come down to my house and take a little look at the piece of shit lemon computer machine I got. That thing hasn't been working right from day one, and if I had any gas in my Chrysler I'd drive down to the place I bought it from and start administering a little baseball bat justice to the zit-faced greasebucket league of braindead shitheads that sold me this pile of junk. On second thought, I don't want you waste projects near my house so stay the hell away or else you'll be experiencing the fun of having motor oil thrown into your eyes while I soften up your chest cavity with the curtain rod that fell off and landed on my TV set yesterday.
So anyway I was sitting on my porch yesterday, sweating out concentrated gin and trying to figure out why I couldn't move my legs, when I noticed that the hellborn mutants walking around this Godforsaken town are even more bloated than usual. You're probably wondering how I could tell this, since most of the human errors in this town weigh more than an entire cattle car, but I got a good eye for detail. For example, one time I remember driving my car through the inside of the Sears in Eastside Mall, and when I got home there was a scarf stuck on the front of my car's grille and I remembered the price that it said on the rack when I first hit it. I didn't remember the right price or anything, but I did remember hitting the rack. That's why I'm a highly decorated war veteran and you're just some unemployed cellulite monster sitting on his fat ass and reading my computer machine TV show.
You're fat and I hate you.
Like I was saying, the Crisco circus tents in this town are getting even fatter than I thought was humanly possible, like the Blob from the movie "The Blob" where Steve McQueen fought some red space gravy. Steve McQueen was also in "Bullitt", which is a real man's movie for real men, not all those idiot fruitcups you seen reading books with Oprah these days. Real men don't read. Real men light fires. Real men drive fast cars or slow tanks or those boats with the guns welded onto them. Real men don't talk about emotions. Real men light men who talk about emotions on fire. Real men don't buy innertubes, wine, fashion magazines, spices, or margarine. Steve McQueen was a real man and if you don't think so then he'd kick your ass eight ways from next Saturday unless he's already dead. I don't remember if he's dead or not, but if he died then God bless his dead corpse because Steve McQueen was a true hero and you'll never be able to amount to the pile of shit that Steve McQueen stepped in while filming "Hell is For Heroes."
So there I was on my porch, sweating like a stuck pig and taking a little breather to save up my energy so I can eventually get up without feeling dizzy and falling off my porch into the lump of dirt next to the steps. At least I think it's dirt, I can't imagine what the hell else it could be. Actually, now that I think about it, I vaguely remember getting into a fight with that loudmouthed pisshead who runs The Mulch Shack down on 17th Street. He was saying all kinds of crazy shit, like how he's better than everybody else because his wife got some disease and died. You know the type; he was pretending to cry and shit and act like he was all sad because his crusty old horse wife kicked the bucket of oats and retired to the big barn in the sky. So I drop my bags of groceries and storm over there and say, "hey you little scumwad, quit trying to act like you're King Hot Shit!" and I slugged him in the jaw with a can of peaches from my groceries. Then he fell backwards and hit his head on the counter and I started laughing my ass off because he forgot to put a lock on his abused children donations box, so I started grabbing handfuls of pennies and shoving them into my pockets. I must've grabbed about 17 pounds of pennies that day, but since that can't buy shit these days, I filled up my grocery bags with his top quality mulch and left. By the time I got home, my car was swerving all over the fucking road like an ice-skating retarded kid, so I pretty much forgot what I did with that mulch. So that could be the mulch by my steps but I don't know and I'm not going to risk getting near it because it smells horrible and it doesn't smell like no mulch I've ever smelled before.
You're fat and I hate you.
Anyway, back to the story. I'm comfortably relaxing on my front porch, thinking about maybe running some laps or chopping down some wood behind my house or passing out again. I gotta keep chopping down the wood behind my house because the fucking trees won't stop growing back there and its really pissing me the hell off. I call that clown Gary Reynolds every goddamn day and say, "listen up you miserable pile of cheese fries. When I bought my house 37 years ago, you didn't say nothing about no crazy ass trees springing up all over the goddamn place like a game of Whack-A-Mole! You'd better haul your hairy ass on down here and start chopping these fuckers down or so help me God I'm going to break an AM radio over your face." Then I'd start hearing that beeping sound on my phone which means something like I won a free prize or some shit so I hang up because I don't want no phone clowns getting my address so they can send me magazine subscriptions and bottles of laundry detergent. These oak trees or elm trees or wood trees or whatever they are keep growing everywhere and whenever ol' Cliffy has any energy, I go out back and start beating on them with an axe and shouting curse words. I hate those trees. All they do is bring bugs and deer and kids onto my property and if I had my way, I'd throw a few hundred gallons of asphalt all over the place and call it a night. But noooooooo, the homeowners said I can't throw asphalt everywhere because I don't own the property or some ridiculous garbage. If I wasn't legally banned from going to the homeowner meetings, I'd show up and illustrate my point by throwing a frozen turkey through their window. I use all the wood from behind my house to work on my toolshed, but I can't figure out how to turn the logs into plywood. If any of you forest rangers out there knows how to turn logs into plywood, you'd better tell me or I'll bust down your front door and throw it into the dumpster.
So everybody in this town seems to be getting fatter by the day. I was going to write something about that but I'm running out of space on this typewriter page so maybe I'll get back to that some other day. Maybe I won't though because this computer machine is starting to act all fucked up and the TV screen is yellow and I can't figure out how to turn that off.
You're fat and I hate you.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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